She found a place high up on the soft-carpeted stairs, and he sat down heavily beside her.
“Well,” he began, staring at her unsteadily, “I certainly am glad to see you, Edith.”
She looked at him without answering. The effect of this on her was immeasurable. For years she had seen men in various stages of intoxication, from uncles all the way down to chauffeurs, and her feelings had varied from amusement to disgust, but here for the first time she was seized with a new feeling—an unutterable horror.
“Gordon,” she said accusingly and almost crying, “you look like the devil.”
He nodded, “I’ve had trouble, Edith.”
“Trouble?”
“All sorts of trouble. Don’t you say anything to the family, but I’m all gone to pieces. I’m a mess, Edith.”
His lower lip was sagging. He seemed scarcely to see her.
“Can’t you—can’t you,” she hesitated, “can’t you tell me about it, Gordon? You know I’m always interested in you.”
She bit her lip—she had intended to say something stronger, but found at the end that she couldn’t bring it out.